The Choices of Shadows
by foriam Touch
Summary: Magic only needs to be changed in the slightest degree to be called wild, and the soulless only need a single other human, their completion, to be called whole again. SNARRY SLASH HP/ss


**Full Summary:**  
_You have made your choice_.  
Snarry.  
A thousand years ago, a soulless boy prayed for love. His life was then vanished, to be brought once again into existence when he was most needed. But his soul resides in the one to complete him, the one who hates him beyond all others, even the now-vanquished Dark Lord. Every threadbare memory the boy has is placed into a darkened corner of his mind as he is sent to the one place only one other has ever escaped from, and there he is set free. Magic only needs to be changed in the slightest degree to be called wild, and the soulless only need a single other human, their completion, to be called whole again.

**Warnings:  
**Heavy Snarry slash (will be HP/ss), Supernatural, OCs, Angst, BDSM, Master!Harry, Slave!Sev, Bond!Fic

**Chapter One: To Whom It May Concern**

**998**

His dark head bowed over his clasped hands as his light green eyes closed in concentration, and his thin lips slowly began to move in a familiar prayer as he leaned on the edge of the bed.

_I beg of you, Goddess, if you never give thy anything else, give thy the love I cannot find in anyone. I wish only to be whole again. This I beg of you._

The boy then looked up with emptied and flat light green eyes to the darkened window across the small room. If he narrowed his eyes slightly, he could see past the glare with a Magick talent the Sir called Sight Beyond, and he saw the edge of the Forest and the curve of the pond that was long outside his empty bedroom. He sighed and stood up, absently brushing off the front of his pants with long, naturally tanned hands that could wield a sword with the same dexterity as he could chop ingredients or play the piano for the Sir.

His thin lips opened slightly in a sigh and he gracefully lay down on the bed. His light green eyes closed for the last time and a knowing smile played on the lips of the numinous being in the corner as she brought up a white wand to cast a gentle spell on the boy.

_You have made your choice._

**1998**

Dull emerald eyes slowly blinked twice as the Head of the Wizengamot read the verdict, and he looked up as the Aurors came to him. He could fight them off, he knew, but he was so tired, so bone weary from the task that had been placed on his shoulders too many years ago, almost nine if his math was correct, that he just didn't care anymore.

Actually, in retrospect, he found that he had never really cared, _really_ and truly cared about anything, or really, anyone. What an odd feeling, he thought as hard, rough hands clamped down on his arms, his shoulders and the chains clanked as they dragged his limp body away. He made futile struggles to stand, but once out of the courtroom, his efforts were rewarded with a sound _thwack_ to the head, and he went limp again, knowing from a long experience to abuse what hits meant: to go limp, and as fast as you could. It never hurt as much when you simply accepted the blows.

He wished for love.

A mocking smile graced his thin lips as he thought about his only desire. Love. How fucking clichéd. He wanted to be cared for like a piece of fragile jewellery, he wanted a hard body underneath him that he could comfortably and securely sleep on, knowing that the warm body would be there in the morn, he wanted _love_, above all else, he wanted _love_. He wanted to be loved, he wanted to love, he wanted to feel that aching loneliness and tenderness from somewhere too deep inside of him to vanish and fade quickly and quietly away.

He came back to himself as he was dragged through a loud, a too loud group of people, and he looked up as a thousand cameras went off, only a few effectively catching the dreadfully lost look in his eyes.

_Guilty of murder in the first degree of Thomas Marvalo Riddle, by use of the Killing Curse…_

'I only did what none of you were able to do!' he thought desperately, and almost tried to kick and fight his way away from the Aurors. His eyes closed in agony as he was smacked again, this time in front of the cameras, in front of the press, in front of the _entire fucking Wizarding world_.

And he could almost hear Snape mocking him, _"Look, Potter! Look at what the great and terrible Harry Potter had been reduced to! Look at what you were paid in return for their sins! See the trouble you caused, you ungrateful brat? You should have just left well enough alone and left the fighting to the big boys, Potter…"_

And then Snape's voice faded away as he tried to not let the tears come. Those had to wait until his arrival.

_Your punishment will be exacted with four consecutive life terms in the high-security ward of Azkaban Prison…_

_You have been deemed a threat to the public…_

_Look, Potter, how you were repaid!_

_For their sins…_

And then everything faded away as the Saviour of the Wizarding world was forcibly—not that anyone would go willingly—transported to the cruellest section of the Wizarding Azkaban prison.

The cell door was locked behind him as he was thrown in, and when he registered the click of the lock and the magic suppressant wards shooting up around him, shooting up around _in_ him, he felt his resolve break, and everything came out in a flood of tears.

He cried for the childhood he had lost, for the beatings he had taken at the hands of someone who was supposed to love and care for him, for the curses he had endured, for the lives he had taken, for the love he had lost. And mostly, he cried, for one of the first time since his earliest months and years in his cupboard, he cried for himself, and the loss he felt.

It was then the Dementors came, and all tears were forgotten as his mind was ripped open and the screams echoed.

**1999**

Days and weeks past as his throat bloodied and then his voice was lost as he screamed and screamed and screamed, and the months then went by as his bones readjusted to a life of non-movement, and the nights and days passed as he pissed himself and barely could drop his pants to shit, and when food appeared in the corner he could barely stand to look at it, much less eat it, but he somehow forced himself, because he knew that if he didn't eat the mush, he would starve and then die, and no one except everyone else would want that. Magic boiled up inside of him, unable to be expounded or set free until it burned his skin from the inside out, and he scratched at his arms and his feet and the other parts of his body that he could reach until his fingernails were covered in blood and his clothes stained with it.

Life continued like this until his visitor came.

Severus Snape stood in the main shit's office of the unholy land of Azkaban while the man spoke to his superior over Floo, and then the man stood up and nodded to him. "Sir, if you wish, we can have the prisoner…" the man faltered and glanced down at a sheet of parchment on his desk, "ah, yes, prisoner 164HP brought to you in our highly secure visiting room."

Snape's black eyes narrowed. "No. I need to see him." His face curled into the familiar mask of the Potions Professor who was staring down miscreant Gryffindors, and the man quickly nodded his acquiesce.

"I will simply call off the Dementors and we will be soon on our way, sir." The man gave him another nod and scampered out of the office. Snape stared thoughtfully after him. The man reminded him of Wormtail, in a much more attractive way, but Wormtail nonetheless. If he did not know by Potter's own hands that the Animagus was dead, he would have thought it was a simple Polyjuice. The man came back, and he motioned for Snape to follow him. "This way, if you would, sir."

Snape followed him down what seemed to be a thousand flights of stairs, past too many cells of dying men and few women, past moaning and whimpering creatures that had long since passed the threshold of agony and were now unrecognisable as human beings. He shuddered in disgust and paused as the man stopped in front of the only completely closed off cell in all of Azkaban. "This is where he is, sir," the man said softly, and he pulled out a short wand and tapped the door twice with it.

The door swung open and Severus Snape stepped in.

The door closed behind him and Snape was momentarily steeped in darkness and despair, and then a light clicked on above him, and the man's snivelling voice filled the room. "Sir, if you need to get out of the room, simply tap on the door twice and you will be quickly removed. Do not worry; he has been properly subdued."

Snape nodded and then looked down at the bloodied lump at his feet with an expression of disgust. He would never admit to liking Potter, but this was a state no human should ever have to be in.

Unfocused emerald eyes peered tentatively up at him through ragged and clumped fringe, and the thin lips growled out, "Are you my rescuer?" Snape flinched back at the coarse sound of Potter's voice and he slowly shook his head, closing his black eyes for a long moment.

"No, Potter. I am simply here to see you."

The boy visually crumpled back in on himself, and then he slowly pushed to his feet, leaning mostly on his right leg, his left hip obviously deficient and moulded and crushed from disuse. The boy was hunched forward, holding his left arm to his stomach as he looked up at Snape with empty emerald eyes. Snape stared in horror. What had happened to the boy? Surely he hadn't been here that long, only a year or so… Snape suddenly flinched at his own cruel thoughts—_he_ still had nightmares from his one-week stay after he had been found out as a Death Eater and Dumbledore hadn't rescued him yet. Had the time truly gone by so fast, that he hadn't realised that this poor, broken boy, who had already gone through so much, was still in Azkaban, suffering because he had simply completed the task set in front of him by the entire Wizarding world?

"I humbly welcome you to my abode, then, kind sir," Potter growled out, unsteadily waving his right hand to encompass the small room. "I would offer you a seat but I do not have one. I was never granted such a privilege." Potter swayed dangerously, and Snape, before he could consciously process what he was doing, darted forward and gently grabbed hold of the boy, steadying him.

"Ssh, Potter," he murmured in the boy's—for that was what he was, just a boy of 18 or so, now—ear, "I have you. I will always have you."

And the boy broke down in his arms.

His visitor had just touched him! _Him_! Touched him! He felt like he was in heaven. The first physical touch he had had in so long and it wasn't filled with pain; it was actually _comforting_, and he felt that creeping loneliness that had been threatening to consume him ebb away.

"Ssh, Potter," his visitor whispered, "I have you. I will always have you."

And it was the closest thing he could remember to love, and he began to cry because he knew, he _knew_, that this lovely, kind man would soon go away and he would be left alone in the darkness once again, half-unsure whether or not that this contact had been a dream or not.

He tried to wrap his arms around his visitor, but was unable, his prolonged isolation having made him weak, and gently, ever so gently, he was lead over to the wall and his visitor slid down to sit, and he was pulled into the man's lap, and there he slept, actually slept for the first time in too long.

A long hand stroked his back as he slept.

He woke up alone.

Snape stared at his reflection in the mirror, silently coming to terms with himself. He looked deep into his own black eyes for too long, and he began to sway with exhaustion by the time he finally turned away and slowly commenced with his nightly absolutions.

He had to get Harry Potter out of Azkaban, and soon. He had been there, at the Final Battle, when Potter had killed the Dark Lord by shooting the bastard full of poison-tipped arrows. The poison had been of Potter's own invention, amazingly enough, and Snape himself had tested it on rabbits. It was _Avada Kedavra_ in potion form; mesmerizing, really.

Snape paused as he brought up his wand to run back through his hair to untangle the ends and cleanse it, and he silently promised himself that he would find the seven gold and platinum vials he had of the Killing Potion, the only ones remaining from Potter's initial stock of thirteen. They had been commissioned into Snape's care because he was the only surviving Potions Master in all of Britain after the Dark Lord had killed the rest. Technically, he wasn't supposed to even know about the potion Potter had created, as the Ministry of Magic had told the public that precious Potter had killed the Dark Lord by use of the Killing Curse, which, Snape supposed, was half true, since Potter must have researched the curse to death—no pun intended, he thought wryly—before even attempting the poison. Perhaps _Avada Kedavra_ had been needed to been cast at the poison while it was being brewed…

Snape sighed and shook his head. He ran his wand back through his long black hair and then turned on his heel and left the bathroom behind him. As he turned down the covers on his bed and stripped to his black cotton sleepwear, he thought about Potter's predicament.

The boy's left hip, if not already permanently damaged, would be soon without quick medical attention. By the looks of it, even if it was healed, the boy would always have a severe limp, and Snape felt sorrow somewhere in the back of his mind for the boy. He himself had met a man who had his hips cursed, and consequently, the man couldn't play Quidditch or even sit upon a broom. Snape slid between the soft sheets with a contented sigh and his eyes fluttered shut. Not being able to fly would surely destroy Potter, not that Snape cared.

His memory brought up the sight of the Man Who Defeated He Who Must Not Be Named, leaning heavily to his right, both knees bent, his left foot stuck in at an angle no foot should ever be, almost ninety degrees, and Potter's slouched posture, his left arm held carefully to his stomach, the jerky movements of his right arm and hand as he moved it to encompass the room.

_The attempts the boy made at trying to hug him back…_

Snape's black eyes flew open and he immediately at once considered the deadly possibility of Potter's mental, or perhaps even magical, state being permanently altered. The Potions Master mentally cursed himself for not thinking of such things sooner, and not checking over Potter's aura, at the very least, when he had the chance. He had heard tales of a Dementor's constant presence having severe effects on powerful wizard's magic. And if Potter was mentally scarred, the consequences could be disastrous for both him, the boy, the Wizarding world, the Muggle world, everyone and everything. Potter was easily the most powerful wizard alive, passing even Dumbledore and Voldemort _combined_ in power, and perhaps the most powerful wizard to ever live. Snape knew he himself was near the top of the list of the most powerful wizards—one's magic had to be especially strong to be even remotely competent at Potions, which only a few people in the world recognised, and to reach a Mastery in the art, one's magic had to be almost overwhelming—if not the second most powerful wizard in the world. He almost snorted at the thought. A Snape, second to a Potter? Usually it was the other way around.

Snape's thoughts changed directions once again to a more sombre topic. Potter's brilliant emerald eyes had been dulled and empty. He unconsciously flinched at the memory, and Snape made a promise to himself to bring Potter out of his shell, no matter what it took, or what he and the boy would have to sacrifice.

Potter was coming out of Azkaban as soon as Severus Snape had a fucking plan for doing so. The man sighed and swore under his breath as he rolled over onto his side, onto his wand. He reached under himself and pulled out the long, thin piece of mahogany and with a flick, the lights were out and his eyes were closed, the wand safely stashed underneath the pillow Snape's head rested on.

He dreamed of nothing.

**999**

The boy woke up in a white room. He immediately knew something was different, besides the fact that this room was white and the room he had fallen asleep in was more of a cream shade, with greenish highlights, while everything in this room was white. He sat up, and that's when he found what was off about this whole thing—he was dead, weightless, also dressed in white, which he found to be unbelievably clichéd and also rather irritating.

"Hello?" the boy called out softly, and a tall woman with golden hair that fell in waves to her waist and warm blue eyes, predictably wearing a white dress that had a collar around her long neck and long sleeves that flared out and ended around the woman's fingertips, and covered her feet, which the boy would also predict to be either bare or would have small white slips on them. She took a step forward, and the boy glanced down at her feet. He was wrong—the slips on her feet were gold, bright gold, as gold as gold could ever be.

"Hello, little Rowan," the woman said softly, and the boy looked straight into her welcoming blue eyes at the mention of his name. "My name is Gabriella. Welcome to the Otherworld."

Rowan's head cocked curiously to the side. "Otherworld, ma'am?" he asked politely, almost tentatively, as if unsure if he was even allowed to ask questions. The Sir had certainly been furious at him a few times for asking questions.

"Surely you have been told of the Otherworld?" Rowan shook his head, embarrassed, with eyes locked on his lap. "Perhaps the Underworld?" Again, he shook his head in the negative, and Gabriella smiled softly at him. "It is alright, little one. Look at me, would you?" Pale green eyes locked with cornflower blue. "Have you ever felt empty, Rowan? Have you ever felt as if you are missing an important part of yourself?" The boy nodded immediately, his pale green eyes watery and still staying locked on hers. "What do you long for?" she asked softly, and a tear fell down the boy's cheek.

"Love," he said softly, and then hung his head in defeat.

Gabriella crossed the room and gently brought his chin up with a long finger tucked under his chin. "I have a question for you, little Rowan, which could change the fate of the world, but most importantly the love that you will have." He nodded for her to go on, and she moved away, dropping her hand from where it had moved to gently cup his cheek.

Gabriella took a deep, steadying breath and began. "You have two choices, Rowan. The first one," here she took a deep breath, and then continued, "is that you can live one of two lives. The first life will be filled with love, familial and friendly love, but none of the love you yearn for. Your parents will be alive, you will have all the friends you ever want in the world, but you will never find your true love, your Soul Mate, the one you ache for. There is a chance you will meet your mate, but you two will never love one another." The boy's light green eyes went glassy with unshed tears as he thought about the possibility. "Your other choice is the polar opposite. Your parents will be killed when you are young, and you will be forced through unimaginable tortures and burdens will be placed upon your shoulders that have been placed upon few before, burdens and tortures that most others will collapse under, and yet you will prevail. You will be the second half of the mythic and famed Heart's Desire, and although you will know only love from your second half, it will be a more complete and total love than anything you could have experienced in the other life." Their eyes met, cornflower blue to light green, and she knew the choice he was going to make.

"I choose to have my Heart's Desire," Rowan said softly, and she nodded, giving the boy a soft smile. She moved forward and placed a feather soft kiss between the boy's blank, soulless eyes, and he searched her eyes.

"Good choice, little Rowan," Gabriella said softly, and she brushed away the black hair from his scarred forehead with a gentle hand, tracing the lightning bolt with the pad of her thumb. He smiled tentatively at her and she gently smiled in return.

"When will it happen?" Rowan asked quietly. "When will I be loved?"

"When you and your love are most needed, little Rowan," Gabriella said softly, and beseeching green eyes made her continue. "That should be within the next one millennia, sweetie."

"Will I know beforehand?"

"No."

Rowan nodded and Gabriella looked softly at him before swiftly leaving the room, her white robes fluttering around her. Light green eyes watched her go, and then Rowan's hand moved up, seemingly of its own accord, to the scar on his forehead, the scar that he had had ever since that stupid serial killer had killed his parents when he was only a year old had given him. The man had been trying to shove the blade all the way into his brain, to kill him, but someone had scared him and he had slipped, creating the scar that had made him famous.

Rowan snarled at the thought and looked around the white room he had been placed it. He saw the bed and laid down in it. His eyes fluttered closed and he slept peacefully, a small smile of contentment playing on his face for the first time in his life.

**1999**

Severus Snape woke up alone, yet again, hating the feeling of loneliness seeping up from his gut and swirling around his heart. For a moment, he allowed himself a few seconds of self-pity about how his life had turned out, about how he was convinced no one would ever love him, and then he slammed his Occlumency barriers down and shoved the thoughts away. He got out of bed and went into the bathroom. He used the basin for urinating and absently watched as the fluid vanished once he was done. Really, magic was such an amazing thing.

Snape's eyes widened in shock and he stared down at the basin, deep in thought. There had been something wrong with Potter's cell, something restricting, something that had made him claustrophobic, something that…

'Holy shit!' Snape thought, his wide eyes jerking up and staring at the wall in front of him. 'Potter's cell had magic suppressors on it!' Magic suppressors were illegal, _very_ illegal, just a few lines under compulsions and the Unforgivables.

'How _dare_ they do such a thing! Potter had saved them all, no matter how he had gone around it! He had done the one thing no one else was brave enough to do!' Snape's thoughts were furious and he didn't even realise he was defending the son of his most hated rival, mentally or not.

He furiously began to think about getting Potter out of Azkaban. It had to be done within the next week, or the boy would surely die, Snape figured, and as he tucked himself away back into his sleepwear, he thought about any number of ways to do it. Did Azkaban have Anti-Portkey wards up? Certainly, Snape figured. Anti-Apparation? Of course, who was he kidding. At a sudden thought, Snape looked down at his hands with a thought.

"Would they have Anti-Shadow wards up?" he murmured out loud, and then jerking as he realised he had spoken his thoughts. He frowned and then slowly began to gather the Shadows to him. They fluttered around him, hesitantly unyielding—he hadn't done this in years, and he had hoped to never have to do it again—and then they rushed in full force, whipping around him, obscuring his vision, and he slowly drew himself out of the Shadows, breathing heavily and swaying on the spot.

For a moment, he felt strong hands on his hips, steadying him, and then he shook the thought away—who would touch him, Severus Snape, a filthy fucking Death Eater, no matter what Dumbledore said—and turned around to leave the bathroom. His stupid imagination was playing games on him again. Anyways, it was probably just a brief touch of the Shadows, and his mind perverted the touch into a faux human.

Snape knew he was desperately lonely and in need of human contact and comfort. It was obviously unhealthy to go for so many years without any sort of touch or comfort. It had been such an odd experience touching the Potter boy like that—comfort was alien to him, both giving and taking. He knew he had to practice using the Shadows for at least a few days before he could even attempt to save the Potter boy from Azkaban. If he simply went now, without any preparation, he would become magically exhausted and would probably drop the boy somewhere off in the harbour between the island Azkaban was on and the mainland, and then Potter would drown, and Snape would as well, not that anyone would care, he noted wryly.

Yet the thought made his chest ache and constrict, and he moved up to his wardrobe to begin getting ready for the day.

He might not trust Dumbledore but he was going to need to talk to the Headmaster, and soon.


End file.
